


The Heart of Rock and Roll

by yuletide_archivist



Category: The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across The 8th Dimension (1984)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-21
Updated: 2008-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-25 01:41:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1624838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for Giglet</p>
    </blockquote>





	The Heart of Rock and Roll

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Giglet

 

 

**She Blinded Me With Science**

Rawhide had only one regret in his life - that it had taken him so long to get here.

\----------------------------------

One part of his brain had been busy with looking over the latest lab results when he'd opened the door. The rest of it had been thinking - with only a mild sense of resignation - about quitting the job, and where it had all gone wrong. 

If he'd wanted to be a lab rat, stuck inside all day on the treadmill of paperwork and testing and paperwork and meetings and paperwork and reviews and paperwork, he could have stopped learning after his B.A. and settled for running laboratory tests the rest of his life. But he hadn't. If he'd wanted to play politics with office dictators and power-hungry peers, he could have taken his M.A. and become a tutor at a university. But he hadn't. If he'd wanted his work claimed by those definitely less able, but infinitely more willing to kiss ass, he could have done a PhD and taken this job. Huh. He had. 

He'd sighed and then the frigid silence of the room had struck him. He'd glanced up from the clipboard to see Dr. Bergman pointing what looked to be a 9mm Glock pistol at Dr Buckaroo Banzai, the brain surgeon who'd come to them a couple of months ago with the fuel-booster project. Not a good situation.

"Sorry," he'd said, "Didn't realise this was a private meeting. I'll just let y'all g..."

Bergman swung the gun towards him. 

"Stop right there, you big lummox," he'd snarled. "Come here."

And see, this was another reason for leaving. The lack of respect. Why was it people thought he was stupid just because he was tall, he'd never understand.

He'd sighed again and walked directly towards Bergman, looming over the man. Bergman squeaked and backed away. 

"Over there, stand over there you idiot."

Rawhide had looked at Banzai.

"Any particular reason he's holding a shooting iron on you? You threaten to hide his red correction pen?"

The other man had smiled, looking mighty calm for someone being threatened with a weapon. Had to admire that in a guy.

"I took issue with his attempt to sell my designs to a competitor."

"Ah," said Rawhide, "Yep, that's a right good rea..."

"Shut up! Shut up both of you! Or I'll shoot you both!" shrieked Bergman. 

Rawhide looked back at Bergman and shrugged, "Well, I see a couple of problems with that, Hank. The first being the very loud bang that would make. Sure to get people running to come see what's going on. And I don't think you'll be wanting that."

"The name is _Harold_ , not Hank, you Neanderthal! How many times do I have to..."

"And the second problem?" Banzai interrupted Bergman's rant, a small quirk to his eyebrow. 

Rawhide smiled. 

"The second problem, _Hank_ , is that you ain't taken the safety catch off."

Bergman gaped at him briefly, then his gaze flickered down to the pistol, hand reflexively turning it sideways to look. 

A second later he was on the floor, stunned. Rawhide disengaged the Glock from Bergman's fingers and flicked on the safety catch. 

"Thank you," said Banzai. 

"Not a problem," said Rawhide.

"So," Banzai continued, "I understand you play the piano?"

=================== 

**Send Me An Angel**

Whilst Mrs. Johnson had a lot of little regrets (Sonny di Notzo, Adam Dortman, and the pink check Gunny Sack dress she wore to her oldest brother's wedding being the most memorable ones), her only major regret was that she couldn't sing. She wasn't _certifiably_ tone-deaf, but it was a close run thing. She couldn't hold a tune to save her life, and the quickest way to clear a room was to let her near a karaoke machine. The only time she ever went near a microphone now was when they'd all had a few and were cutting loose. In fact, that was exactly how she'd met Buckaroo and the boys...

\----------------------------------

"You _really_ shouldn't be singing," said a male voice.

She had turned around to see a pair of chocolate brown eyes and a pained expression framed by artfully tousled blond hair.

"Perfect Tommy," reproved another man standing beside him, black hair and an ice-blue gaze that somehow seemed to warm her.

"What I meant," continued Mr Perfect, "Is that a mouth as lovely as yours is meant for better things."

She remembered staring at a lush mouth that actually might deserve the appellation 'perfect', and grinning wickedly.

"Well, why don't you give me one of those better things to do?" she'd said and tiptoed up and planted one, smack on those perfect lips. It was a good kiss, hot and wet and strong and dizzying. Then she'd slid back downwards and peered drunkenly at Mr Perfect's shirtfront.

"That's a very nice suit," she'd told it, "But your tie's completely the wrong shade of purple. You need a red-purple, not a blue-purple. Maybe in a nice Shantung silk with a bit more shine. And a chequered texture would really make it."

"That's what I said, too," came another voice. Brown hair and amused leonine features, and dressed a little too conservatively for clubbing. 

"I'm sorry, does this mouth belong to you?" she'd asked.

The trio had laughed.

\----------------------------------

Ma's maternal disapproval could've been heard in Times Square when she'd told the family about her new job (her brothers and Pop had been thrilled). Give up a well-paid career as a junior cosmetician at _Angie's Hair and Nails_ (she'd swept floors, organised lunches and looked after the appointment book mostly) to trek around the world looking after a bunch of rock 'n roll yahoos? (somehow Ma always ignored the bit about brain surgeons and scientists and whatnot) Who knew what would happen to her? (something other than a dead-end job that ultimately devolved into a layabout husband, 3 kids, a dog and a stationwagon in Trenton, she hoped) The presence of Peggy was only a small mollifying point (even Ma had to admit Peggy had real class). 

It was only after she was the first di Angelo _ever_ to earn a college degree - part time or not, Art History or not - that Ma had conceded that maybe, just maybe, the job was good for her. She'd just rolled her eyes (being safely on the other end of a telephone in Prague at the time), and agreed, _yes_ , she knew you couldn't trust the tap water in foreign countries and _yes_ , she'd make sure to only brush her teeth in bottled water, and yes, _bye Ma_ , smacked a hand away from where a certain someone was trying to distract her back into bed, and then gone off to organise weekend catering for two dozen hungry mouths, the hiring of a hyperbaric chamber for three days, the rewrite of the extension clauses in the new U.S. government contract, the booking of a romantic dinner, and the pickup of Buckaroo's favourite dark blue suit from the drycleaners. 

===================

**Owner of A Lonely Heart**

Perfect Tommy had buried so many regrets in his life you could have filled a cemetery with them. 

You wouldn't have thought it to look at him - captain of the football team, straight A-student, hot guitarist, chick magnet extraordinaire, coolest guy around. He'd always fit. He'd always been in place. He'd always been the action hero, the guy-to-go-to, the one in charge. He did everything right, everything perfect, the first time around. With his friends, it wasn't just a given, it was expected.

None of them ever understood how alone it made him feel. 

\----------------------------------

Tommy had begun to regret taking Judy on a date even before she'd gotten him into the fight. She'd talked about her problems at work, her problems at home, her problems with her friends, and he'd been expecting to hear about her problems as a baby next. He had attempted to ignore the prattle and concentrate on the band, who were really smoking. Someone had told him the lead guitarist was a brain surgeon in real life. He'd raised an eyebrow and said, yeah, and I'm a rocket scientist. Though to be honest it seemed like the only thing he hadn't been - gardener, casino dealer, mechanic, poolboy, equities trader, and a host of other jobs had held his attention briefly and then dimmed into disinterest. 

Then one of Judy's flung-wide hands had connected with a passing drink. Unfortunately the drinkbearer was not only more than a little bit drunk, he was also more than a little bit belligerent. Hence the fight. 

He had been easily holding his own until the drunk's two best friends had decided to pile into him. Even then he hadn't really worried, as it was obvious these guys possessed neither moves nor sobriety. Regrettably, one of them possessed a knife. 

"Hey, c'mon man, that's not cool. You don't want to go there," Tommy had said and flicked a quick glance around to make sure there were no non-combatants in striking distance. 

Buddy #2 was trying to circle behind him and Tommy had shifted around, trying to keep them both in sight. He distantly noticed the music had stopped in the background, but even if someone went for the bouncer now, it was the next few seconds that were crucial. 

All three had rushed him. 

In the scuffle the knife had missed him, but a punch to the gut gotten through, followed by a fist clipping his jaw. He had gone down, black edging his sight. By the time his head had cleared enough for him to struggle onto his elbows, there was another body on the dance floor and his attackers were kissing the ground. 

The guy who'd saved his ass strolled over to him. Nice suit, black hair, pretty blue eyes, pretty face, and a calm, reassuring smile.

"Hey, Tommy, isn't it? I'm Buckaroo," the guy had reached down to him, "Let me give you a hand."

\----------------------------------

Perfect Tommy walked the walk and talked the talk, but he was too honest with himself to believe he was actually perfect. His old friends didn't understand him not being _The_ action hero, or _The_ guy-to-go-to, or _The_ one in charge anymore. They didn't understand why he was happy being second best. But he did - because second best was close to perfect.

===================

**Some Guys Have All The Luck**

He leant against the doorframe and drank in the sight - brown curls and softly feminine limbs entwined with a lithe masculine body and blond locks. From the other side of the bed Rawhide leant up over his companions, dark blue gaze wide-awake. 

"What're you looking at, Boss? Get on in." 

There were some nights when her name ran through his head in a chant - _PeggyPeggyPeggyPeggyPeggy_ \- until she was all he could think of. But she was gone and he was left. But he was at least left with family. Family, and something more. And he wouldn't, he couldn't, regret that.

===end===

 


End file.
